


Gyfu

by riventhorn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-08
Updated: 2011-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The runes and symbols seeped into his skin...</p><p>Written for vesperdivum</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gyfu

The ground was damp from melting snow, the buds swelling on the trees, the first time the old man came to the door. His mother answered the knock, peering out into the night, her welcoming smile fading when she realized it wasn’t one of their neighbors. Merlin, already curled up in the bed, warm and drowsy, caught a glimpse of a gnarled face and deep blue eyes before his mother stepped forward, blocking his view. Their voices whispered—the one familiar and concerned, the other strange and deep, like the heavy stones of the mill grinding together.

“Who was that?” he asked, when his mother turned inside, shutting the door.

Hunith came over, bending down and trying to comb out his tangled hair with her fingers. Merlin scowled and ducked away. “Who was it?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she replied. “Sleep now.”

“But I’m not tired. I want to know.”

“Shhh,” she whispered. “Sleep, love.” And she hummed a song—the one that made his magic purr like a cat and curl up, sleepy and sated. He could never stay awake through it and drifted off, hearing the old man’s voice thrumming in a steady counterpoint.

The next morning, his mother put on her shawl, and Merlin put on his jacket and mittens. “Where are we going?” he asked, and Hunith said, “Into the forest,” and straightened his collar.

The trees loomed over them, tangled and dark. Merlin walked close to his mother, even though he was twelve and shouldn’t be afraid. The snow clung to the shadowed ground, the sunlight filtered through a maze of branches. “Are we going to see the old man?” Merlin whispered.

“Yes. He’s going to help you with your magic.”

Merlin stumbled over a log. “My magic?”

“He’s a druid. He said that it’s important that you come to him.” His mother steadied him, the look in her eyes that said: _You’re so special, love, but sometimes I wish you didn’t have such gifts._

They walked for a long time, and Merlin’s stomach growled, hungry. His magic flashed, jolting through his fingers, and the leaves on one of the bushes furled open, verdant, red berries clustered among them. He hung his head at the reproachful look his mother gave him, but relished the taste of the fruit on his tongue, autumn-ripe on a cold, spring day.

They stopped a few yards from an overhanging rock. Branches, twisted together, leaned against the front, creating a sheltered nook. Smoke curled out, turning the air hazy, and Merlin could smell pungent herbs. The old man appeared, and now Merlin could see that his hair was white, but his eyes were still as blue as the sky on a winter evening, just before the stars came out.

“It is good you have come. All is prepared,” he said, and Hunith gave Merlin a gentle push towards him.

He thought, then, that perhaps she was leaving him here, and he clutched at her, burying his face against her shoulder. But she rocked him, kissed his forehead, and said softly, “I’ll wait right here for you.”

So he stepped forward, trembling, and followed the druid into the dark, smoky confines under the rock.

The druid sat down, crossing his legs, and patted the ground. “Sit. And remove your jacket and tunic.”

Merlin hesitated, eyes stinging from the smoke. Fine bone needles were arrayed next to the druid, and his magic sprang awake. But the druid spoke a word, soft and low, and the magic subsided, growling unhappily.

“Your body is changing,” the druid said, “and your magic changes with it. It becomes wild and strong. You must control it, and I will help you do so.” He lifted one of the needles. “Runes, inked into your skin, will unite the magic with your body and your spirit. Come. Sit before me, Merlin.”

The voice was calm, reassuring, and Merlin knelt, taking off his clothes, stretching onto his stomach. Dry, gentle fingers touched him, and then Merlin felt the first prick of the needle, just above his hip bone.

“ _Gyfu_ , for your talents, running hot in your blood,” the druid murmured, and the needle moved over his skin, stinging, biting.

“ _Nyd_ , for the desires that rise in you, tempting and devious.”

The herbs were making Merlin sleepy, clouding his hearing, his sight, dulling the pain.

“ _Eeoh_ to harness the power, to protect and defend you. _Is_ to cool your passions and stay your hand.”

The druid’s words washed over him, soothing the burning in his skin.

“ _Eolh_ for the path you walk, shrouded yet certain. _Haegl_ for the suffering you shall endure on the way.”

Merlin wanted to speak, to ask what the druid meant, but his tongue felt swollen, his mind sluggish.

“ _Sigil_ to guide you on your way. _Tyr_ to give you courage.”

At last, the druid fell silent. Merlin could not tell how much time had passed—hours, perhaps. Something cool and wet was rubbed into his skin, and he hissed, twisting to look at his back. The runes curved across it, intertwined and sinuous, a few starting to climb up his spine, the rest spanning the distance between his hips. The druid was cleaning the needles, nodding to himself.

“Why?” Merlin asked, his voice cracking against his parched throat. “Why do I have magic?”

The druid smiled and laid his hand against Merlin’s forehead, but did not answer.

Merlin found that his magic became calmer, less apt to burst from him, more amenable to his silent, uncertain commands. Two years later, the knock came again on the door. This time, Merlin went alone, trying not to blush when the druid bade him lay on his back, nude, and began inking runes down towards his groin. _Ur_ for virility and strength. _Odal_ for the blood, passing from father to son.

Sometimes he could smell the herbs in his dreams, intense and cloying. He woke and ran his fingers over the black lines decorating his skin, watching as they stretched and reformed to fit his growing body.

Anger and frustration simmered in him now. His magic snapped and howled, wanting to run free, and he wanted to know _why—why am I like this?_

 _Radh_ for both the journey and the union. _Eoh_ for the loyalty you will bear him.

Merlin didn’t bother asking questions anymore, knowing they would be met with silence. And the runes, covering his back now, climbing over his shoulders and down his arms, seemed as cold and alien as chains, digging into his skin.

“I won’t go back to him,” he told his mother. “My body is no longer my own—covered with their runes, with their magic. What about _my_ magic? Why won’t he speak to me about something that _matters_?”

“Please, Merlin,” his mother whispered. “This is important. Please, just one more time.”

And so he went when the summons came. This time, a different man awaited him in the woods. Younger, brown eyes dark in a pale face.

“Amaethon spoke to me before he passed on,” the druid said, gesturing for Merlin to sit before him. “He told me of his meetings with you, of the task that should not be left unfinished.”

Merlin jerked at the laces of his tunic, his skin already prickling at the thought of the tiny, stabbing needles. “He never even told me his name. He never told me anything.”

“Better to remain silent than to say too much,” the druid replied and with deft hands, he began working, inscribing the design onto Merlin’s chest. The tattoo curled down his breast and over his heart.

To Merlin’s surprise, it was not a series of runes. As he watched, a strange beast took shape, at last coalescing into a dragon. “Why?” Merlin asked when the druid was done and laying aside his tools. He couldn’t help the question, couldn’t help the confusion and anger that twisted his mouth and brought tears to his eyes.

The druid placed his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You shall see. Go forth now, with the blessings of the gods.”

*

Pendragon. Dragon. Dragonlord. Runes and symbols seeping into his skin.

*

The first time Arthur eased up his tunic, broad hand splayed against the small of Merlin’s back, he went still and silent.

“What are these?” he asked at last, and Merlin didn’t like the current of danger that ran through his voice, the hint of suspicion.

“They don’t mean anything. It’s just a custom in Ealdor.” Another lie. Did Arthur believe it? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

When Arthur was done—too soon, for Merlin had not yet satisfied his craving for Arthur’s body, within him, above him—Arthur trailed his mouth over the twisted path, breath tickling, teeth nipping. He turned Merlin over, looking damnably pleased with himself, and saw the dragon.

“Ah, now this one,” Arthur traced it with his finger, “this one is most fitting.” He sounded a little amused and very satisfied.

“It has nothing to do with _you_ ,” Merlin snapped, but this time, Arthur recognized the lie.

*

A space between them. Each glance of Arthur’s felt like the needles, digging into his skin. He wanted to grovel on the floor, beg for the pain to stop, but he would retain some small shred of dignity and pride for himself. Everything else had been given. Would be given.

Arthur held him down, and Merlin struggled. They didn’t speak, writhing across the bed, muscles straining until Arthur cried his name, collapsing, pressing his face against Merlin’s chest.

*

Tossed together on the blankets, as though a wind had swept them together, Arthur would whisper, “Tell me what they mean,” and Merlin would take his hand, drawing the roughened palm over his hip, his arms. _Tyr_ for courage. _Eoh_ for loyalty. The dragon for my powers. And for you.

*

Candlelight sought out the corners of the room, the summer twilight giving way reluctantly to night. Merlin ran a hand down Arthur’s naked back, soothing, knowing each curve of bone.

“What is it called again?” Arthur asked.

“The _Aegishjalmur_. It will protect you in battle and give you the strength to defy your enemies,” Merlin answered and picked up a needle, bending close. As he worked, he felt his magic bleeding out of him, burrowing into Arthur’s skin.

When it was done, he rested next to Arthur on the bed. Arthur shifted a little, smiling, and laid his fingers over Merlin’s runes. “To think that it was there all the time for me to see, had I but understood,” he murmured. “I fear my own flesh has a much duller tale to tell.”

“No,” Merlin contradicted softly. He touched the scar on Arthur’s shoulder from the Questing Beast. “For courage.” The whitened gash from the dragon’s claws. “For strength of will.” The puckered scar left by an arrow. “For honor.” A faded mark across his ribs. “For faith.” A kiss, soft, lingering. “For love.”

*

Lines joining, extending—a fishbone shape moving with the stretch of skin and muscle. Tiny squares and lines, arranged into patterns, faded slightly from time, overlain with the bruise of strong fingers, holding, pulling, caressing. Runes and symbols to bind the magic and provide a path for tender lips to leave an invisible, enduring mark.


End file.
